


Brotherhood

by Reesa



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CIA mission gone wrong, Clint & Nat friendship, Explicit Language, Frosthawk - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reesa/pseuds/Reesa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint thinks his mission is simple. Everyone else seems to want to prove him otherwise. </p><p>What begins as a straightforward operation becomes a big chase for someone’s miserable life. All because of a book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Redemption Dashed

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, this is an AU entirely, in which Clint and Natasha work for the CIA, which Fury directs. As well, I intend Clint, Natasha and Loki to be within the age range of late twenties or early thirties. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers.

A velvety black folder slid slowly across the desk, slipping under Clint’s hands. He looked at it before staring upwards, facing Nick Fury, whose one able eye looked stern and solemn. “I don’t know if you caught on yet, Barton, but I didn’t send you up here to catch up after the holidays,” Fury began; his voice aggressive and gravely, “Or, for that matter, to talk about our damn feelings.”

 

Clint never really could grasp the Director’s humour but nodded anyway. One of his fingers traced the curved edge of the folder—black: it had to mean classified, or beyond classified. He was used to getting Manila folders with dog-eared sheets sticking out of the side. So he took this as an upgrade, as some sort of promotion, a reward from all the deskwork he’s had to do, and smiled a bit. That didn’t escape Fury’s eye, as he warned the agent, “This isn’t a late Christmas gift, Barton, I expect the best from you on this one.”

 

“As always, sir,” Clint answered immediately, trying not to be distracted by the novel item in his hands. Fury huffed loudly, almost laughing but in a sardonic way, as he crossed his arms against his chest and watched Clint stare at the folder like it _was_ a gift for Christmas. Fury shook his head, half smiling, and said, “Go ahead, Agent Barton, open it up.”

 

And he did, swiftly. He couldn’t hold in his excitement; his eyes lit up, he licked his lips and had to try to hold his hands steady. He spread the sheets from the folder on the desk; a habit he’d caught from watching Fury do it for him the first year he was with the CIA. Fuck, he was so young then and it’d only been a couple of years since, but that spine-tingling feeling was happening to him all over again. Maybe because it’d been _months_ since he’s been given a mission. Maybe because his stomach’s still unsettled, or that things haven’t patched up yet. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he _needed_ this, badly.

 

But then when he read: _cargo transport_ , his brows creased. His face scrunched in confusion, and he dared to look up at Fury for explanation. “Um,” he mumbled, but Fury cut him off, “Yeah, you read it right.” The Director’s smile broke into a playful grin that didn’t quite match the intensity of his eye. Clint was even more confused.

 

He was shaking his head when he began speaking, “Director, I—“

 

“No, Agent Barton. I’m not _asking_ you. I’m telling you: this is your damn mission and you’re going to give it your damn best.” When the Director didn’t get a response, he barked, “Is that clear, Agent Barton?”

 

“Yeah, yes, sir,” Clint mumbled, shoving the papers in the folder and sliding it back to Fury. “Yes, Director Fury,” he finalized, looking him in the eye briefly before scraping the floor with the legs of his chair, and leaving the office. In his exit, the only sound was the soft thud of the door closing.

 

Fury sighed, leaning into his chair. He looked upset but determined. He had faith in Phil, so he had faith in Clint. He knew Clint wouldn’t let them down _again_ , but he had a feeling that adding Natasha to the mix would just add salt to the wounds. Well, it was too late now. He already did the damage. Besides, Clint was on top of the list of his best agents—excepting a major mistake on the agent’s part—especially considering how young he was. And youth brought about recklessness sometimes, but if Phil expected his agent to be above it, Fury would think so too.

 

“All on you, Nat,” Fury said, and then he heard a shuffle that could have easily been a breeze pushing at his window, but he knew well enough that he was given that sound to hear on purpose. “Good luck.” He smiled grimly.

 

*

 

First, he had to retrieve the cargo.

 

He was given a time and place: twenty-three o’clock at the Palace.

 

Despite the fancy name, Clint found himself in front of a loud, neon-lit club. He groaned in frustration, and kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk across the building. Its doors opened up to release terrible, roaring music. Clint couldn’t believe that he was stuck with _these_ jobs. He signed up with the CIA two years ago, and he had assignments like these for the first few months until he proved to his SO and Fury that he was more than capable out on the field.

 

And now, he looked at his hands, which felt naked without his weapons—he wasn’t allowed to bring weapons at pickup—and felt stupid. Stupid and useless. Shoved aside, stupid and useless.

 

But a mission was a mission, and if Fury wanted his best, Clint would give it _and then some_. He’d show that one-eyed pirate.

 

He straightened up before crossing the empty street, getting through the bouncers with his badge. “Thanks, fellas,” he said before getting dowsed by the booming sounds that thumped through the speakers, trying to make people move to its beat. Bodies bumping, limbs entangling; Clint caught glimpses under the wandering spotlights in the dark, and he felt so out place. He was never one for clubs. Dancing, ugh, it sent a crawl down his spine, and not the fun kind, but the I’m-this-close-to-vomiting kind. If these kids put as much effort as they did dancing onto something more productive like learning self-defense, the world would be a lot more fun. But Clint was biased; he just wanted more of a fight when he started one. Besides, most of the club patrons looked like they were having fun—save the group of awkward dorks trying to find someone to dance with, but that wasn’t the target. The target was something sitting on a throne. A throne, what the hell. Like he wasn’t having trouble wrapping his mind around such a shitty mission in the first place, but now, he had the added factor of Fury being cryptic. Fucking pirate.

 

“Let’s hear you scream, New York!” the DJ shouted over the music and into his mic. The crowd became a cacophony of hollers and howls. This was ridiculous. He had to find that _throne_ as soon as possible.

 

It took him around a minute and a half to find the largest private room in the back. He opened the door to step on a shaggy red rug. “I’ve been expecting you,” a deep voice revealed itself by Clint’s far right, where he turned to face—no way—an actual throne. But instead of looking elegant and real, it was phony and cheap; it had splintering, chipped wood with felt pretending to be cushions. Clint suspected that the private room was for rich kids trying to show off; that made him snort.

 

“You’re a bit late.” The voice came from somewhere behind the fake throne.

 

“Yeah, sorry. Not used to picking up cargo at a club that smells like cheap booze, with horny college kids that grab my butt like a lifeline.” He could’ve easily come off as sarcastic, but he honestly couldn’t care. He momentarily thought that his rear-end must've been chafed after all the unwanted groping. “So you gonna give me what I was sent here for, or we gonna have to fight?” He spoke quickly, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket. He was growing impatient; this was a mission and it was ridiculously easy, but now he was in a stupid club with someone hiding behind a stupid throne who wouldn’t give him the package already. After a moment’s silence passed, he resolutely said, “Guess it’s the second one then. Come out and get some ass whoopin’ then.” He was hoping for that anyway but kept that thought to himself.

 

“I’d rather not,” the voice spoke, “but it seems we’ve come across a conundrum.”

 

“And what’s that, exactly.” Clint could play along for a little bit until he’d get entirely sick of it. Plus he was enjoying the adrenaline kick from the anticipation. He wanted to _fight_ , damn it. But some back-and-forth banter could be fun for now too.

 

He heard footsteps, and watched a shadow drag along a lithe body all in black step up and into his view. “I’ve got nothing to give,” the young man in front of him answered, with his empty hands out. Elegant, pale fingers, like a magician wearing gloves; hands out to prove that his wand that channeled all of his power disappeared in a magical _poof!_

 

Several feet separated them from each other, and Clint was grateful for the space. He got to scan the man from head-to-toe without moving his eyes so conspicuously. Long, slickened black hair. Tired green eyes. A sly smile. A relaxed stance. If he wasn’t carrying the cargo, maybe it was behind the throne where he was. Maybe it was the throne itself. But Clint recalled that something or other was supposed to be _on_ the throne. Nothing was on it. Oh, maybe the little magician was supposed to be sitting there. Clint _was_ a bit late after all, so maybe he moved, tired of waiting, or maybe the guy was afraid, or nervous. That would explain the hiding. But it didn’t explain the serene, tired smile on his face.

 

“So you’re the cargo,” Clint said after quickly realizing it, “What’re you in trouble for?”

 

“Take a guess,” the other said playfully, smile widening to bare teeth. His green eyes glimmered mischief, but Clint would rather face the guy than go back into the dance floor again. Yet he felt let down; he was expecting _some_ bloodshed. But a mission was a mission, so he returned the smile, took a deep breath before speculating, “You ate rubber full of crack, you took some lax, and now I gotta bring you to a _safe place_.”

 

“To a men’s room all the way in Scandinavia?”

 

“Huh, so you know where you’re going.”

 

“Otherwise I’d be a pawn.”

 

Clint smirked, beckoning the _cargo_ , which Fury failed to elaborate was actually a fully grown man, towards him. “Well, if anyone’s the pawn here,” he teased, letting it trail off, as the two of them left the room.

 

The music was worse the second time around; Clint covered his ears with his hands, but they were gently dragged down when his cargo—he’d ask for his name later—grabbed his elbow and lowered his arm. Clint looked at him inquiringly, and he was answered with a whisper to his ears, a soft smooth voice: “Care for a dance before we flee?”

 

“Fuck, no,” Clint replied, grinning against himself, and let himself be carried into the crowd, simply because those green eyes sparked something inside of him that wasn’t what he’s been feeling for almost a year now.

 

He didn’t really dance, but he shoved through the people a lot rougher than he needed to, and led the cargo through with ease. And he could hear him laugh, laugh and laugh, as they hid under some darkness and music. “You’re quite fun,” he heard by his ear, feeling warm breath on his neck.

 

*

 

“Now that I think of it,” a voice floated in his mind, starting to speak. He was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, as he couldn’t see. There was a voice without a face, talking freely as if they knew each other. His whole body felt like a tight knot; the voice was so familiar and it crawled under his skin. Ah, that was it: the voice sounded punitive, just the slightest bit. It kept going, “The file did say: first, retrieve the cargo, _and then_ go to bed with it.”

 

Clint groaned, confused at the accusation. He felt his whole body shift, and felt the bed beneath him, the thick covers over him and the presence of someone else in the room. It smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap air fresheners—a motel. He was in a motel room. What happened last night?

 

He groaned again, stirring awake. He blinked, vision hazy. He blinked some more and rubbed his eyes, and then something in front of him was beginning to form. Ah, shit. Red hair, fierce eyes and a firm frown. Crossed arms and legs. “Nat, what the hell,” he grumbled, throwing the blanket over his shamed face. It was all coming back at once: the deafening music, the heat of bodies, the comfort of stripping of his jacket, and the warmer heat from a certain body—just one, only one. _The cargo_.

 

“And then after that, let it slip away from under you, and out of this questionable motel, and into the expanse of New York City. Congratulations, Clint, you pretty much failed us the mission.”

 

Clint could’ve asked her a lot of questions then but decided to question, “ _Us?_ ” He was too ashamed to show his face to her, after all this time especially. It’d been at least last year since he’s seen her, and this wasn’t a welcomed reunion.

 

“Yes, _us_ ,” she confirmed, “I’m the partner you were supposed to meet at the airport.”

 

He groaned, and kicked at the sheets petulantly. Really, Fury gave him this easy delivery and still couldn’t trust him to do this alone. “And if you think for a second that you could’ve done by yourself, I’ll go ahead and remind you that you already lost track of him,” he heard Nat say in disdain. “You shouldn’t drink from a soapy glass, Agent.” Clint felt the covers come off of him, felt her sharp nails graze his face. He opened one eye with hesitation. He must’ve looked so stupid; he was doing a good job at that lately. Before he could speak of all the things he’d kept bottled up from her, she said, “Just because he’s the mission doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted right off the bat. Beginners’ stuff, Clint.”

 

“I—I didn’t— _Nat_.” He was getting up and searching for his clothes.

 

“Don’t worry, you’re just having trouble remembering the events that led you here,” she said, looking arrogant now, “I can help you with that.” Clint threw a sweaty shirt on, smelling an unfamiliar musk. He heard her feet shuffle against the thin uneven carpet, and a door sliding. And then a weak muffled voice. When his head popped out of the shirt, he watched in horror that the cargo—the _guy_ —had his hands tied together to his chest, his ankles tightly wrapped together, and his mouth covered by a makeshift wrap from a pillowcase. “We’ll start from here,” she said, eyes narrowing at their cargo, who, with every fibre of his being, looked as if he was plotting the most vicious way to kill them.

 

“By the way,” Nat teased cruelly, “the name you were calling out last night was _his_ : Loki.”


	2. Grey Skies but Clearing

Finger tapping has never been so obnoxious in Clint’s life. There were other obnoxious things of course. He could make a list right now, out of the top of his head came: one, his horrible migraine; two, the stench of one uncared-for cargo; three, Nat’s nagging voice; and four, the unending humiliation he was going through. From being subjected to this to being objectified to being treated like a little kid.

 

He didn’t want Nat to see him like this after all this time. He didn’t want Phil to think his golden boy had fallen so far from the podium he put him on, that he actually fucked the mission over, literally. Not that he could remember a single visual detail of the event; all he remembered were a few thoughts. That he’d enjoyed it, that he didn’t regret it, and that he has no fucking idea how the hell it all happened. Nat explained that Loki used Liquid X on him. _Loki_ —the conniving asshole. He was just supposed to be cargo, a thing they brought from point A to point B, but he was putting in a lot of effort to be as difficult as possible for them.

 

In the rental car, Nat was driving. Clint sat behind them as he watched Loki’s fingers tap against the window, sometimes scraping, sometimes playing a strange rhythm. This was going on for a good half-hour. “Stop with the fingers already,” Clint growled, making Loki chuckle lowly.

 

“If memory serves, you’ve said those words to me before,” Loki quipped.

 

Clint groaned. The wound didn’t even scab yet, and Loki was already making insensitive jokes. “I wasn’t conscious.”

 

“I liberated you from the shackles of society,” Loki tried to be poetic. It didn’t work.

 

Clint rolled his eyes, and angrily asserted, “Whatever you did, you took advantage of me.”

 

“I much prefer _liberated_.”

 

“Will you two stop flirting already?” Natasha, ever the sadist, stopped their bickering with that. The edge of her full set of lips turned upright. Clint thought that at least she was in a good mood, but that was never a good thing.

 

*

 

JFK wasn’t a far trip, but it was insanely hectic going through airport security. Clint, groggy from the aftereffects of a drugged drink he didn’t remember taking, was having trouble sorting through all the noise. He let Nat lead him through the metal detector. He didn’t know how to react when one of the security officers gave him a funny look.

 

“Finally,” he sighed in relief as he sank into his seat. The entire terminal was full; was everyone on their way to damn Norway?

 

Nat was busy, informing HQ of their status on her phone. The codes were probably sent through harmless texting to avoid any suspicions in the crowded airport. And Loki was staring blankly into space, legs spread apart in his seat; fingers and thumbs against each other. He could’ve easily looked like a super-villain and that made Clint chortle. “Find something amusing, Barton?” Loki’s scowl turned into a stretched smile.

 

“What the fuck did you to me?” Clint muttered, sinking lower, letting his forearms hang on the narrow armrests. “Can’t even think.”

 

“Then I did you a favour,” Loki replied, cheekily, “I would rather be mind-numbed for the next seven hours.”

 

“S’good point,” Clint admitted, shrugging, and letting his head roll back. He closed his eyes and tried to dream. “Be back with coffee,” he heard Nat say, and Loki said something that turned fuzzy in his ears, and then he drifted. Drifted into a dreamless slumber.

 

When he awoke, he was still seated, but on a longer backrest and with a lot less leg space. “Augh,” he whined, shaking the pounding feeling from his head.

 

“Good sleep, Agent?”

 

“Oh, god, why did Nat make me sit with you?” Clint was waking up now, opening his eyes and trying to adjust to the dim light over his head. He lifted his hand up to press the button off. _Ding_. Shit, he must’ve pressed the wrong thing. He tried again and the light turned off. Only the faint hall’s glow illuminated his view. He had the window seat, so at least he could lean on his right. Loki was to his left, asking the flight attendant for more water. “Here, you can take mine,” he said, bringing an untouched bottle of water to Clint’s tray, which Loki uncapped and set down in front of the curious agent. “As for your partner, she’s sound asleep as you were a moment ago.”

 

“Thanks,” Clint mumbled more out of habit than actually meaning it, but he took the drink, inspected its smell and looked at it warily—and then spared a suspicious glance at Loki, who chuckled breathily—and chugged it down. He didn’t know he was thirsty, and finished off the entire bottle. “Fuck, how much longer?” he asked, tucking the empty plastic in between his legs as he stretched out his arms as far as he could, which was not far at all. Damn, he was sore all over.

 

When it was silent for too long, less than a minute really, he turned to face Loki, who was unabashedly staring at Clint’s neck. “What,” the agent asked in irritation, feeling a sudden wave of insecurity wash over him. He cupped his neck with a hand and glared into Loki’s curious eyes. “Dude, stop.”

 

“Oh,” Loki mouthed. He looked away and snapped out of whatever he was in.

 

“What, never seen a guy drink before, geez,” Clint remarked with a scowl. Before he was given a response, the flight attendant came back and gave him another bottled water. And by the time Clint finished the whole bottle again, Loki had his eyes closed and head resting on his own shoulder.

 

Clint took a deep breath and got some steam out through the exhale. He leaned back into the textured seat and hoped he didn’t have to be stuck in here much longer.

 

Sliding up the window cover, he watched the night sky he was surrounded by. It was all void and darkness, much like the sleep he couldn’t go back to.

 

*

 

The airline was kind enough to give them breakfast. “Enjoy the meal, friends. We will be landing in a couple of hours. Excuse the turbulence.” Clint smirked, thinking about how probable it'd be that in the middle of chewing crap cafeteria food, he'd bite his tongue because the wind blew the plan too hard.

 

He peeled off the plastic cover and frowned at the tiny servings of what he guessed was Norwegian cuisine. At least there was meat in it; he could go for that. He started chewing on a chunky piece and found that he liked the taste. “Smells like home,” he heard from beside him, making him look at Loki, who jabbed at the food with a plastic utensil. “Don’t look very excited ‘bout it,” Clint somehow said through the mouth chewing.

 

Loki shrugged lightly and pushed the tray of food as far across from him. “Perhaps it’s due to my fear of heights.”

 

“Or,” Clint spoke and swallowed the last bite, “you’re nervous about going home.”

 

“One could assume that, yes,” Loki said, voice low and almost inaudible. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were hidden under dark lashes. Clint cleared his throat, feeling a roughness in it, and then spoke up, “What _did_ you get in trouble for?”

 

Loki hummed in thought before suggesting, “Let’s play that game, where you guess and I’ll tell you when you get it right.”

 

“Don’t you mean _if_ —if I get it right?” Clint laughed despite himself. It was the same feeling he had over a day ago, at the nightclub. There was something easy, smooth and effortless when Loki sparked a conversation. But this time, Clint would be aware of any tricks up the wicked wizard’s sleeve.

 

Loki nodded, laughing along softly. Their voices were low, considerate to the other flight passengers as they conversed. “Did you steal something valuable in like, Denmark and now you have to return it and serve time?”

 

A negatory shake of the head, and Clint went on, “Are you running away from a mob whose leader you killed in cold blood just because? You’re a double agent who we have to bring back safely to Sweden? A traitor of your country? You figured out the toughest equation and now we have to bring you to Nerdsville so you guys can fanboy over it?”

 

The last one struck Loki; Clint was surprised he got it right, but his hopes were quickly dashed. “Nerdsville? Fanboy?” Loki questioned like the words were a foreign taste on his tongue. “I’ll give you credit for creativity, but you haven’t gotten close to it.”

 

“How about since I just asked a shit ton of questions, and also you drugged me”—Clint’s look hardened and his companion cringed—“you eat your food so my job doesn’t die here.”

 

“Fair bargain,” Loki complied and started eating, while Clint finished the rest of his before it got cold.

 

*

 

Maybe Loki wasn’t a magician. Maybe he was a hypnotist. Maybe Clint wasn’t slipped a drug; it was probably just Loki talking to him and then suddenly, he was floating on air, doing as he was commanded. Because Clint managed to be the one carrying _all_ of the damn heavy luggage and haul them _and his dumbass_ to the hotel.

 

Natasha was on her cell phone, updating HQ, and in between, trying to keep Loki awake and walking. Clint was trailing behind them, feeling his muscles strain against all the weight. He realized he was eternally grateful for shuttle buses, one of which led them straight to their hotel, and their stuff was brought into their room, where Clint lunged into the bed and hid under the covers.

 

“Guess I’ll take the sofa,” Nat said, yawning, “You boys can share the bed.”

 

“Mno!” Clint protested, mouth against a large pillow.

 

“I’m not sharing a _sofa_ ,” she countered, “especially with this six-foot-two long-limbed giant.”

 

They waited for Loki’s response but sometime earlier, he'd fallen on the carpet and was leaning on the side of the bed.

 

“And look, all you have to do is haul him up,” she said with finality as she grabbed the duvet from Clint’s grasp and put it over herself as she settled herself in the sofa.

 

“Fine,” Clint said petulantly, grunting when he carried his cargo up to the mattress. “But I’m playing foreign movies on the TV, and you’ll suffer with me.” He blindly grasped for the remote; it was always on the side table, and switched on the wide flat-screen, lowering the volume so he could use the background buzz to drone him to sleep.

 

Aware of the lack of head pain and the comfort of both the bed and the company that surrounded him—fuck, Nat was talking to him again, after all the time he was worried and scared that he’d lost her for good—he forced himself to rest.

 

They had an eight-hour layover in Oslo, and Clint would be damned if he didn’t spend some of it sleeping.


	3. Oslo

When Clint had been alone for those months, waking up had become dull, except for the unceasing curl in his stomach that made him feel sick all over again. In his sleep, he’d been living in his subconscious, oblivious to reality, letting his dreams carry him away. But when the sun would come and he’d get up, it was dizzying. He’d let down everyone: Phil, Fury, his team, his own best friend. He would rather have a nightmare during every sleep he ever had than _live_ out one. And a nightmare he did live for almost a year, until now.

 

Here he was, in a room, albeit very large and spacious but still in close proximity to the best friend he thought he’d never get back, along with a seldomly practicing sociopath who was really no threat while half-asleep, or truly, at all. There was no way Loki could’ve brought any drugs with him through the airport security anyway.

 

“Morning, Clint,” Nat said softly, nudging his form off the bed. “Let’s get some food before we go.” He checked the bedside digital clock; he only got less than two hours of sleep.

 

“What about the cargo?” he murmured, stretching.

 

“He’ll be fine, got him cuffed.” Why wasn’t he surprised she brought cuffs with her? He uttered something affirmative before getting off the bed and following her out of the hotel room.

 

In the wide hallway, he smelled something citrusy. “You washed?” he asked her, and she raised a brow at him, supplying, “The plane smelled like pig.”

 

“Nothing wrong with anything that turns into delicious bacon.”

 

“Oh, _you_ were the pig stinking up the place,” she teased, smirking. He huffed out a laugh and let the air clear out for a bit until he couldn’t hold it in any longer and said, “I know room service is still an option around this time, why are we taking our sweet time walking to the lobby?”

 

“You know why, because we need to talk.”

 

“Nat—“

 

“I’m sorry,” she started, but he was trying to speak over her, tripping on the words he’d said over and over again in his head, preparing for the moment he’d be granted the chance to speak to her again. “No, listen, Clint,” she said, her hand on his shoulder. He reluctantly shut his mouth, and that made her smile. “I kept waiting for your dumbass to come apologize to me, but I realized you were probably coping with some stuff that stopped you,” she spoke wholeheartedly, and fuck did he miss it, “So now _I_ owe _you_ an apology, and I don’t want yours now. Not yet. It’d be bad timing.”

 

“Bad timing?” he mimicked, confused, after letting some of her words sink in.

 

“Yeah.” Her smile curved into that ominous smirk. Clint swallowed, looking over his shoulder to track where her eyes were directed to: a group of men dressed in suits coming out of the elevator. He felt her tug him into the corner with her, as she whispered, “We leave the cargo for a minute and then some guys show up on our floor. They’re not very good at this.”

 

Clint fought a chuckle. “Or we’re _really_ good at this.” Nat gave him an odd look and rolled her eyes, bringing up, “Last I checked, _I_ was the one who knew.” He couldn’t help the chuckle now for sure, correcting her, “I’d call it a hunch.”

 

“Hey, who’s there!” one of the men shouted at their direction, probably after having heard Clint. “Knock knock,” the agent replied, coming out of the corner and into their sights. “Oh, good, I was wondering when the party started.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about, kid,” another barked in bewilderment.

 

Clint thinned his lips and frowned. “You know, ‘cause there’s a bunch of you,” he tried to explain, deflated at the confusion written in their faces. “Come on, are you serious? Look, there’s like, five of you guys. So it’s like a party.”

 

“We’re not here for some stupid party of yours, kid.”

 

“That’s fine,” Nat spoke up, somewhere in the hall. The men in suits looked up and at corners, trying to find where her voice was coming from. “You guys don’t look like you’re much fun anyway.” In a second, one of their men fall down with a grunt.

 

“What the fuc—“ one of them began but was interrupted by leather-clad legs choking his neck. When he tried to resist, she squeezed harder and asked, “Why are you here?” The other three were pointing their guns at her, but Clint kicked the weapon out of one of their hands, and the other two were at the mercy of the stolen gun. “Go ahead and pull the trigger, but if you do, before it even hits my partner here, all three of you will be dead,” he threatened, feeling the rush he’d missed for too long.

 

“He’s bluffing!” the unarmed man claimed, putting pressure on the bump on his head. A bullet silently marked the wall he was leaning against, a mere inch above his head. His eyes widened, looking wildly at Clint, who looked smugly back at him, “Think I’m still bluffing?” The man shook his head furiously.

 

“Who else thinks I’m bluffing?” the agent asked the others; two of them knocked out by Natasha at this point. She eyed one of them expectantly, and he blanched and couldn’t speak. “Good,” Clint spoke, “now answer what she asked earlier. Why are you following us?”

 

“I already know the answer to that,” Nat said dismissively and clarified, “I want to know how you tracked us. How did you find us? Why are you here?” She received nothing in answer, which made her grab one by the collar as she repeated more aggressively, “Why? Didn’t you get it the last time?”

 

The man in her hands shook violently, and Clint, lost in her words, came out of the confusion to momentarily comment on the pungent smell coming from the man. “Oh, ugh, I’m gonna be sick. He pissed himself.”

 

“I—I— _please_ , miss. We follow orders, that’s it. We’re here for the book, that’s it. I swear, I swear!”

 

“Tell me more,” she growled, kicking one of the braver ones into unconsciousness. Three now. The man began to choke and gasp for air but still spoke, “Only... _he_ knows where… it is. He—stole—it.”

 

She dropped him to heave on himself. Clint looked at her searchingly. What the hell was going on? A book? He wanted to ask for clarifications but she was already busy, clicking her headset and speaking to the concierge about cleaning up the fourth floor. Of course SHIELD had connections here; he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire floor was empty, and everything was a trap for this poor fellas. When Nat turned to face him, she was smiling and said, “I was wrong. They were fun after all.”

 

It was never, ever a good thing when she was in a good mood.

 

*

 

During lunch, Clint was stuck looking after Loki, who was getting paler and more sickly by the hour. Or maybe it was just his imagination. “Hey,” the agent probed, looking half concerned, half alarmed, “what’s up with you?”

 

The two were seated on a desk, adjacent to each other. Nat was interrogating the suited men in another room, where either the walls were soundproof or she was being uncharacteristically nice to them. He wouldn’t bet on the latter.

 

He chewed noisily, open-mouthed, staring blatantly at the preoccupied-looking Loki, who stared frustratedly into space. “He _llo_ ,” the agent tried again, waving a hand in front of the other’s face, “where are you, man? Where’d you go?”

 

He meant it for it to be a joke, but Loki seemed to take it seriously and literally, answering, “I went to America to run away from everything, and now,” he trailed off, blinking as if coming back to the present but continuing his thought, “Now, I’m being chased, and I have to run back home.” He shoved his face in his hands and moaned.

 

“Hey, wait,” Clint spoke softly, his hand trying to pry Loki’s hands off himself; they were starting to claw at his hairline. “What are you talking about?” Was anything going to make sense with this mission? “Is that why we’re transporting you? You need to come home safely? Who are you running away from? Who were those—“

 

“Clint,” came Nat’s voice from the doorway, where his eyes went almost immediately, still trying to get answers from her. “Time for my lunch, so you can go bug our bunch of hostages. I don’t think Loki’s up for much talking anyway,” she added, offering a small smile.

 

It took Clint a few seconds to nod and get up, leaving the two in the room.

 

Nat sat on the desk and picked at the scrambled eggs Clint left behind. “So,” she said cautiously, putting her hand over Loki’s grasping pair, hoping it’d relax him. “Wanna talk?” she offered, looking into his absent green eyes when he relaxed into her touch.

 

“I’ve gone over this in my head time and time again, Agent Romanov, and I—I don’t know why you’re putting up with me and the tribulations that trail me.” His voice was low, deep and in pain. He stared back at her, eyes more pleading now. “Why do you keep helping me?”

  
Nat let out a husky laugh, relaxing into a crouched position over her friend. “We’ve been at this for months now. They’re nothing to worry about. Besides, they were never threatening. And to be perfectly honest, it’s _a lot_ of fun kicking their asses every time they try,” she said mostly joking to coax a bit of lightness into the subject, but Loki’s creased brows and worried frown didn’t leave his face, so she kept trying, “They’re not gonna touch you, ever again. Loki, I promise. I won’t let them.”

 

She cupped his cheek gently with her hands, and rested her forehead against his. “I didn’t get a scratch on me.”

 

“And what about Barton?”

 

“Neither did he. He loved it as much as I did. It may be hard to believe but we _like_ danger.”

 

Loki scoffed, shaking his head slightly and pulling away from her. “I can’t shrug off this feeling, even with your reassurances.”

 

Nat rolled her eyes and sipped some of the cold coffee. “We both know that’s not why you’re all shaken up. You don’t wanna go home, you don’t wanna see Thor.”

 

He turned frigid at the sound of his brother’s name, avoiding her gaze. She continued, “He asks for you to come home, and you’re lucky ‘cause it’s about time. You’re tired of running from cult-brainwashed freaks, then a miracle happens. Thor calls Fury for a favour. Pick up my brother, make sure he’s safe. Now that he takes over Odin’s diplomatic duties, he’s the hotshot and your safety is one of his goals.”

 

She paused to give Loki time to digest what’s happened in less than a year. It was all true: a cult chasing him over a book, Thor asking for him, Fury delivering. But it wasn’t all done overnight. In fact, Natasha had to chase after him as well, earn his trust, and then keep him locked down and kept clean for a few months before she could bring him to Fury and ask what needed to be done next. And from there, she tried to play things smart: fix both Clint and Loki’s problems. The two had issues up to their necks; they were drowning in it. And since they were both dumb beyond saving their own hives, she had to make the moves for them. Spell it out.

 

“So, here we are, two days away from completely finishing this mission. And for whatever reason, you’re more anxious at the thought of seeing your brother than facing those goons.”

 

Loki denied her any answer and instead, decided to down the rest of his drink before sluggishly walking to the bed and resting quietly.

 

Outside the hotel room stood the blond-haired agent whose one side leaned onto the door, pressing his ear against it. His shoulders sagged as he heard the scuffle of someone’s feet going to the other side of the room. He clenched his jaw and thought hard about what he’d just heard. So that was what was happening.


	4. Stockholm

Clint’s mind was reeling. Cult? Book? Diplomatic duties? There were links in his head he couldn’t connect to one another just yet. Did it mean Loki was related to some guy… his brother, _Thor_ —honestly, what kind of name is that? Their family must all have weird names. Whoa, Clint, getting off-track here.

 

“Hey,” the sudden voice by his side broke him from his trance, and in an attempt to hide his flinch, he shifted to the voice. “Hey,” he repeated back at Natasha, who stuffed her bag in the overhead and slid into the aisle seat beside him. She was smiling a little, her eyes trying to show some sort of sympathy. Clint knew her little games, but it didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate her trying to get down to the level of confusion he was feeling. First, Fury’s mission, then the blackout, and now some guys in suits wanting a book. _A book_. A throne, a book. Now what? Where they going to see magical elves prancing around a pond to reincarnate some sort of water goddess? ‘Cause everything was ridiculous, and as much as Natasha tried to clear out some of the fog, Loki wasn’t saying a word. He hasn’t given Clint any of his usual sass since the hotel room at Oslo. And that bothered him more than anything for some reason.

 

“So, you’re kind of up to speed, right?” Nat asked, smiling wider, still with the sympathetic eyes. Of course she’d sent him away on purpose; she was closer to Loki than he was. Apparently for some time now, they’ve been together, trying to fix this cult book problem. And getting him out of the room had been a subtle invitation for him to eavesdrop without Loki knowing he’d listen in, and Nat used the situation to simultaneously reveal some information to her fellow agent and to coax some out of Loki, who was being stubborn again, except there was a lot less talking involved and a lot more silent moping.

 

He was sitting a narrow aisle across from them, alone in the window seat, elbow bent on the curve of the glass window that showed endless white clouds that gave him some distraction away from the anxiety threatening to take hold of his entire mind. It was happening again; the hunt for his head was back on. He’d thought he’d escaped them, especially since he was flying his way back home. The connecting flight must’ve been a set-up to ensure that he _was_ safe, but he wasn’t. The Brotherhood was still after him, looking for that book. That fucking book. He chewed on the insides of his mouth, trying to elicit some discrete pain to distract him some more; he could feel his right fist shake. He hadn’t even meant to make such a fuss over some piece of fairytale literature. As if the Brotherhood’s Book would help them reach immortality. What a bunch of bull, and it’d been a simple trick: pretend to play the role of a Brother; play nice with the fools; make a joke out of the Leader; and snatch the book from under their noses just to rub it in some more. That was it. Was that so hard.

 

Who was he kidding? He messed up again. Couldn’t he just run away from home and be _good_ for once? If only he knew what _good_ entailed. He was born to misbehave. As soon as he stepped foot into new land, he had known he would reign chaos all over again. Staying up late, recklessly dragging his worn out body party to party, club to club, bar to bar, with faceless people and nameless lovers. No security, no plan, no protection. No questions, just chugging down the stinging punch of shots down his throat and swallowing pills without so much as a suggestion. He’d done it all, and for what, to be in trouble again. Foolish, dumb, thoughtless, crazy.

 

Looking back, he felt so stupid. He shook his head and tried to restrain the tears that dared to slip. He moved his head closer to the window and wiped one that slipped through his fingers and down a warm cheek. Now he was going to be under his father’s wrath for sure. There was no escaping it. And Thor had power now. Loki couldn’t imagine what his brother would do once he’d figure out he’d caused trouble again. Was he to expect a fight? Or a welcome home? Maybe he should expect them to be the same thing at this point. Three years away from home and nothing has changed. Same old trickster.

 

Lost in his thoughts during the short flight bringing him closer to home, he opted to feign sleep when the snacks and drinks were passed.

 

*

 

Natasha was taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi on the plane, and Clint felt so old, watching her conquer modern technology like it was his shooting an arrow at a range and getting the mark over and over again, except instead of a bow and quiver, she was using a tablet provided by the CIA. “Here, look,” she said, passing the tablet to him. He was more used to desktop stuff, but even then, he really didn’t know what he was doing except typing his fingers to numbness over paperwork at the office. He took the tablet in his hands and stared at a Wiki page on an organization called the Brotherhood. Clint was stuck, looking at a photo of brown-hooded men, so Nat wiped the page to scroll down and highlighted the important parts with a pointing finger. She began to mouth but eventually let him read on by himself, “A cult that believes they will achieve a stage of immortality by dedicating their lives studying and practicing the Brotherhood’s Book.” She flipped the tablet vertically and zoomed in on a picture of a thick, wide book covered with a cheap red velvet-looking cover. It was engraved with _Book of Immortality_ in gold stitching. It looked like a joke, and as if Nat was reading his mind, she said, “It’s hilarious, I know, but these guys take their book seriously, and our pal here took it without permission.”

 

“Why doesn’t he just give it back?” Clint asked, pushing the tablet away as if it’d burned him. Stupid new stuff. Why didn’t _he_ get a tablet from work?

 

“It’s not that easy,” Nat answered, putting the tablet away, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.” Clint waited for a few seconds, expecting her to explain a bit more than that tidbit, and nudged, “Why not? Why not just give the book up?”

 

She sighed, looked away for a moment and turned to him to say, “He lost it.”

 

*

 

When they landed, Loki led the way to their second hotel stay. He didn’t speak unless he was asked a simple question, like when the driver asked where they were going. The agents tagging along with him were busy; Nat pretending to speak excitedly with a friend who was undoubtedly HQ looking for updates, and Clint was stuck with the heavy baggage again. But it was all worth it. His jaw unhinged at the sight of the incredibly spacious and expensively decorated suite.

 

“Is Fury really paying for this?” he questioned, dragging Loki’s bags into his own bedroom, which had the biggest bed and the fanciest things. Why would anyone ever need a treadmill and a gift basket of chocolate-dipped fruits? Those two didn’t even go hand in hand. His eyes widened at the idea of the bar fridge here, and he wasn’t disappointed to find it filled with an impressive collection of alcohol. “No, of course not,” Nat answered his earlier query sometime ago, “The Odinsons upgraded our trip.”

 

“Well, thank you, Loki’s super rich family,” he said, grinning and uncapping a bottle. He was chugging it when the dark, caramel liquid leveled down to show an upset-looking Loki in front of him with his arms crossed against his chest. Clint offered the rest of the bottle to him, smiling sheepishly. “What, they’re gonna cover this too, right?” he asked, waving the bottle by its neck. Loki ignored him and walked away.

 

“Still a bit sore,” Nat provided from behind him, as she entered one of the two bathrooms in this surreal suite. Clint followed Loki with his eyes, while the latter rested on a chaise. He was smirking, replying in regards to the eyeing agent, “Something you’ve said before too.”

 

Clint frowned. Well, at least Loki was back.

 

He sat beside him, legs spread as he leaned forward on a couch with mostly throw pillows than seating space. “So was that no on the alcohol?”

 

Loki shook his head. “Perhaps it’d be best to limit yourself with it. We wouldn’t want a repeat of the last time you drank some around me.”

 

Clint couldn’t help the smirk that mimicked Loki’s. The brunet looked so damn confident like that, eyes sparkling like the whole world could be in his hands at any moment, but Clint knew better. It was the other way around, but he let him have the moment. It couldn’t hurt. “You know, I still don’t remember a thing,” he said, trying to keep Loki from going back into his dry spell.

 

“Of course you wouldn’t. That’s what GHB does to the mind.”

 

“That’s what you gave me?” Clint furthered the conversation, “I know you must’ve done some terrible things to me, but since I can’t recall a single thing, I don’t really care anymore.”

 

“No, I would suppose you wouldn’t mind, considering we did no such things of what I’ve been insinuating the past couple days.”

 

“Wha—“ Clint startled, straining his neck to look at Loki for some clarity. But the brunet pounced on him, straddling his lap and pushing him down on the cushion. Loki leaned into him until their lips crashed, his tongue seeking to get past resistant teeth. “Whoa!” Clint pushed him with an effortful strength, standing up and looking down at Loki who fell on the thick rug. “What the hell, man.”

 

The man in question took out something from his pocket. A container of pills. He shook it teasingly, breaking out in a toothy grin. His eyes were a glazed pair of gorgeous green that Clint didn’t want to keep looking into, so instead, he focused on the pills and grabbed them expertly away from the chuckling man. “Fuck,” the agent muttered, reading the contents of the locked container. “You took some GHB, when? And why? And how in the _hell_ did you get this past security?” Then a more dire question: “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

 

Loki shrugged, getting on his knees and dragging Clint down to the rug with him. The agent let him as he was trying to figure things out. Why was there always something trying to baffle him during this damned mission?

 

“You see, Agent Barton, this is one of my most favoured drugs. GHB allows one the freedom from one’s mind. Tomorrow, I will forget the events of tonight,” Loki said, gently tugging the agent by his collar to face him eye to eye. “Unfortunately, there are other side effects to this drug. Namely an enhanced sexual desire. A painful enhancement.”

 

“Painful…?” Clint spoke inquisitively at his drugged cargo. He steadied Loki by holding onto his shoulders, meeting his gaze.

 

“Yes, it’s as if I have a hunger and I need to feed it,” Loki replied, harshly bringing his face less than an inch from his, “ _Immediately._ ”

 

“Whoa, hey, no,” the agent got up from the spot, helping the other stand as well. “Your mind is clouded. You’re not even yourself right now.” He helped him lie down on the chaise again but Loki cringed and flexed.

 

“You don’t understand, Agent, it’s important I receive what I seek.”

 

“Or what?” Clint questioned, not feeling threatened at all, standing over Loki, who seemed to be writhing weakly at a pain he was perceiving through the drug.

 

“Or I’ll spill words I don’t want to say. This drug also acts as a truth serum.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes and sat at the edge of the chaise, sighing silently. He put a hand over Loki’s ankle, and tenderly asked, “Why did you take the drug, Loki? Are you really that strung out?”

 

“You’ve no idea, Agent. I merely seek release,” he revealed, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples, trying to calm the strong desires in his mind; the agent had a point, he wasn’t being himself. Maybe he could control this a bit; he should have some sort of immunity over it from taking it so often, but he was feeling electrified and he needed to ground himself. “Perhaps, perhaps I also thought this would be a wise idea.”

 

At this point, Clint’s eyes were going to be stuck behind his head. “What the hell are you talking about? How is this in any way _wise_?”

 

“Because I’ve fooled you. I’ve tricked you into believing I took advantage of your body while I played with your mind, but nothing of the sort ever occurred. I used the GHB to ask you questions, to test you, to see if you truly meant me no harm.”

 

“Oh,” Clint managed to say, after letting those links click in his head. He was still watching Loki try to have some sense of control, looking like he was trying to focus on anything but the innate desires. “In retrospect, I wish I didn’t take the drug, but it seemed like the only solution to the ache in my head.”

 

“And what’s that,” the agent spoke softly, positioning Loki to sit up and talk to him in a more civil way, instead of hovering over Loki’s fetal position. He looked the agent in the eye as he sat up as directed, responding, “I love causing trouble. I like sparking the fire just to see it burn everything to ashes. But I have to stop.”

 

It sounded genuine enough; Loki wanted to get away from some sort of past that brought him into this sticky situation. Not that the cult’s goons posed a threat. The whole thing seemed like a joke to Clint, but it wasn’t to Loki, evident in his now weary eyes and frustrated expression. “I had planned to come home to boast. I wanted to show them that I could take care of myself and be better than they could ever imagine, but I’m on the run. That’s all I am now, a little boy running away from a bunch of bullies because I lost their most precious thing.”

 

Lost, right. Loki lost the book. Clint breathed out, running fingers over his spiked blond hair. “How _do_ you lose a book?”

 

Loki laughed out bitterly, sitting in a much more comfortable position beside the agent. He leaned on his elbows which rested on his knees as he curved his back and hid his face behind a curtain of his long, black hair. “I was in a state such as this when I lost their beloved book. Just as I thought I could escape you while I put you under the same spell.”

 

Clint smiled, remembering the morning he woke up to a scolding Natasha. “Yeah, but Nat caught you.”

 

“I could never escape her. She will always find me,” Loki said solemnly, “I know that I’m only a mission to you two, but I feel as though that she’s a dear friend of mine. There were many moments she could’ve dropped me like hot coal, but she has stuck around even through the toughest times with me. She’s met more than a hundred of those peeving men during the course of our relationship.”

 

“Yeah, Nat _does_ have a thing with making friends with delinquents,” Clint joked, putting weight on his flattened palms behind him. “Me being one of them, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Loki agreed, playfully, showing a smile that looked less sociopathic and more amicably. “When you were under, you told me about your grave regrets on your last mission.” At that, Clint perked up and couldn’t fight his reddening cheeks. “Did I?” he croaked out nervously.

 

“Yes, don’t be scared. Natasha was mad only briefly after you _betrayed_ her. Though from what I’ve gathered from both sides, no betrayal occurred. Only two agents doing as they were told and circumstances against it.”

 

Loki shifted his body closer to Clint’s side while the agent was too busy to notice, having been distracted by the idea that he’d spilled his guts to Loki a few nights before, about something that had caused his stomach to be in knots all those dreadful months. Clint felt a warm breath on his neck and closed his eyes at the welcoming touch, recalling the night they’d met. Walking past where he’d entered the club, getting into a cab, going to the motel, taking a drink from Loki’s hands. Soapy glass. Liquid X, GHB. The drug made the drink seem like it had been from a soapy glass, but it was the drug. And everything else was a blur.

 

He felt weight on his side, and when he turned to it, his lips smacked against Loki’s, which formed into a mischievous smirk. “And now for the other side effect,” the brunet spoke huskily, holding onto Clint’s collar again.

 

“Loki,” the agent tried to tenderly call him back into reality. “This isn’t right. You’re going to regret it.”

 

The brunet halted, moving back to observe the agent as he asked, “But would you?”

 

Clint tried to think about it and was surprised that he had mixed reactions to the idea. What had happened here? Was he drugged too?

 

“I saw the way you looked at me the first time. Your eyes held a wild desire.”

 

“Yeah, to fight,” he corrected, feeling small under Loki’s gaze. He kept trying to pick out what he needed to say about his feelings; both _yes_ and _no_ were fighting to leave his lips to answer the question earlier. He made up his mind and settled with, “ _Yes_ , I’d regret it.”

 

“Then what of the way you stare at me now? You feel bad for me, don’t you? Then do something to fix it,” Loki suggested, pinning him down with that stunning look alone. Clint felt like he could lose himself in those eyes, like they knew the answers to the universe, but Loki didn’t. He was in a pile of shit he couldn’t get out of. Clint shook his head, trying to stay within reason that seemed to be fading. “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

Loki hummed in agreement as the agent helped him up and brought him to the large mattress, where Clint startled at the swift pull of his body under long, lean limbs, losing himself to the musk mixing between them two. “When you are both gone, my only path is certain death.”

 

And with that, their lips met again, and Clint tried in vain to push Loki off of him, but felt the latter’s strength keep him there. So Loki was determined more than ever; he did say it was painful. But that didn’t mean Clint couldn’t keep trying to fight, if it weren’t for the sheer surprise of Loki’s sudden strength hindering him from fully fighting back. When his lips were momentarily not being assaulted, Loki growled, “Here is your fight.”

 

Then came the punch.

 

Under Loki’s weight, Clint couldn’t reel back from the force that hit him square in the cheek. Loki pinned him by the waist, and while he was sitting up, he drew his fist back again to aim at the agent’s jaw this time. But Clint caught him and turned the tables around, still trying to shake off the shock from the first hit. “What the fuck are you doing!” he cried out, trying to straddle him onto the bed and holding onto his moving wrists. “The fuck did you punch me for, asshole!”

 

“You wanted a fight, you have one!” Loki said maniacally, laughing all the while struggling against Clint.

 

“You’re going insane, Loki,” Clint angrily said, letting his fingernails dig deep into Loki’s skin as he tried to restrain him. Blood was reaching into his ears; he could feel heat rush into his head and flush out throughout his body, like a fire crackling and spreading across, lighting up his every nerve, fuelling him.

 

“No,” Loki growled out, looking ridiculously mad, eyes no longer glazed but burned into Clint. “You said so yourself. I’ll fulfill your want, and you will do the same for me.”

 

“Fuck, no,” the agent barked back, losing his side of the fight over a violently thrashing body, which kept making him lose his balance on the bed. His wrists were cuffed under those pale fingers—gloved magician’s hands—that let Loki wrestle him around until one of them got the upper hand.

 

He kneed Loki’s thighs apart and pinned him again but with lesser strength. He was becoming quickly exhausted from all of this; he hadn’t seen action in a while, and this was more of a fight than with those cult-heads. Especially since he was supposed to be _taking care_ of the cargo, not trying to bash his head in. “I need you to calm the fuck down, or I’m gonna have to hurt you,” the agent tried to sound leveled. He wasn’t going to give in to his anger.

 

“Then hurt me!” Loki shouted, spitting on Clint’s face, “Hurt me, maim me, cause me pain until I can’t _feel_ anymore.”

 

It really was a pitiful sight: a drugged-out Loki, giving up at the first wave of trouble. Now he was trying to stop a sob that came out as a whimper from his lips. Clint knew he didn’t want this fight anymore; at least not with Loki. He relaxed when he felt Loki stop resisting against his weight.

 

He brought his torso down to rest against Loki’s heaving chest, using his palms and stretched arms on either side of the brunet’s head as leverage, as he coaxed him soothingly, “It’s gonna be all right.” This was a mess, he knew it. If he’d played it right in the first place, Loki wouldn’t have had the upper hand even for a minute. “Nat and I aren’t going to let you burn.” In the dim light of the bedroom, he saw green eyes turn from fiery to grief-stricken. The emotions running through him were showing like a slow motion picture: rage, frustration, sadness, then defeat. But Loki’s anger was bursting by the sneer formed by his red, bruised lips.

 

“I don’t want your pity,” Loki weakly jabbed, looking well and thoroughly humiliated but still trying to hide it behind an unmoving scowl and by looking away from Clint’s concerned gaze. Clearly the agent was the victor, but he didn’t enjoy the feeling. He set his forearms down and used one hand to move Loki’s head to face him so he could say, “Then don’t take it.” But the words never came, as the troublemaker took the chance to seize his lips once more, exploring the open mouth with an eager tongue, and fuck, fuck, fuck, Clint was falling for the crave. He felt the wetness and warmth of the teasing tongue in his mouth, lapping at his own. It’s been so long since he’s had someone make him feel this way; want and take. He closed his eyes and let the sensation sink in; a smooth tongue cleverly making him ignite with pleasure. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he rolled over on his side and let himself be taken over by the temptation. He’d fucking regret it but that didn’t mean he didn’t want it.

 

“Fuck, take it off,” Clint said breathlessly, thrusting his hips onto wandering hands. Loki’s smart fingers unbuckled and unzipped Clint’s jeans, while their mouths were still locked to each other. The agent cursed against soft, ample lips; he was letting this happen. The spar got his heart kicking and with all the energy ready to burn, he still needed to get off. It wasn’t like Loki would remember, but he shouldn’t be taking advantage of him. Fuck, the mixed feelings. But when a hot palm moved over the telling curve of his boxers, it instantly made him lose control of reason. “Yes, yes, hell, yes,” he muttered, grunting when a hand wrapped around him, tugging upwards. “Not very patient, are we?” Loki observed with an amused, deep voice, letting the blond thrust into his fist blindly in haste.

 

When Clint could only see white sparks behind closed eyelids, he grabbed the brunet by the back of the head and crushed their mouths against each other. Loki’s hand slowly stroking him until Clint cried out in exhaustion and elation. He felt light kisses down the column of his neck as Loki chuckled lowly.

 

A door unlocked and swung open into the room. “I take a bath, and suddenly this,” Nat’s voice was barely reaching it into Clint’s ears; he was letting sleep take him. Clint was falling into a deep state of unconsciousness from the overwhelming wave of release, when he might’ve mistakenly heard Nat say, “Stop toying with him, Loki.”

 

He’d worry about that later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't, in any way, want to portray drugs as an awesome way to escape problems. Don't do drugs, kids! :D


	5. Gotska Sandon

The CIA office located in New York was almost across town for Phil. He liked the distance; it meant he could ride Lola, his beloved convertible, and bask in the after dusk, right before morning settled, right before everything got busy and bustled with people. Not that Phil minded people. In fact, he’s always been a people person, but some alone time with Lola was a rare, beautiful thing.

 

With one hand on the steering wheel and his arm out and over the car door, he palmed the smoothness of the slick car, and his smile widened. Through his sunglasses, he saw the sun rising slowly. It was going to be a good day.

 

He cheerfully greeted the help desk at the main floor, and asked them about their week so far. He waved at them before entering the elevator, and as he was about to press the button to his floor, someone called for him, “Coulson!” And in a flurry, long messy, wavy brown hair brushed his face as it whipped, and Skye was trying to regain her balance after almost tumbling into the elevator. “Whoa, dizzy,” she moaned, trying to down the nausea coming up her throat. “Hey, Coulson! Can you believe it, I’m on time for once!” She laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.

 

He laughed along, patting her in the back. “That’s good, Skye. I’m happy to hear it,” and he meant it, looking at her with a tender smile. It wasn’t one of Phil’s common tight-lipped appeasing smiles; it was one that showed genuineness, which she showed to only his favourites. Yes, Phil had favourites; one of them being Skye, who he personally recruited.

 

When they reach the office, Skye made a run to the washroom. As Phil passed through the door, he was greeted by a sleepy receptionist, who he promised to get coffee for on his way back. “That’d be fucking great, mate,” Lance said, tiredly smiling back.

 

After a detour at the break room, with two coffees in hand—one black, the other more milk and sugar than coffee—he walked to a cubicle. Its walls somehow felt higher than the rest in the office, like it was meant to be a far-away tower where no one could reach. While most of the cubicles were decorated, minimally or a lot— _Skye_ —Melinda’s was plain and grey. Phil peered over the wall and watched her before she acknowledged him. “Good morning, Agent Coulson,” she said with an indifferent tone that always made him grin. “Hi, Melinda,” he responded, boldly cheerful at her frowning expression. “Got you your coffee, the usual,” he said, setting it by the corner of her L-desk.

 

She glanced at it and her frown turned into an unsmiling expression. A straight line was made by her rosy pink lips as she took the Styrofoam cup in her hands and nodded at her friend, “Thanks.”

 

Phil nodded back, leaning his side on the wall now that he was facing her. “Lunch at Mario’s today?”

 

Melinda was about to speak when Phil’s phone rang. He apologized before taking the call, and Melinda whirled her chair around and started work again. “Morning, Director.”

 

“Agent Coulson, we need to talk.”

 

The graveness of Fury’s voice didn’t go unnoticed but Phil still said, “I hope you’re not breaking up with me. I mean, I have some things at your place, you have some at mine.”

 

He reached the Director’s office speedily on the upper floor, running to give Lance his coffee before doing so, and as soon as he closed the door behind him, Fury was already speaking. “How do you feel about Agent Barton, Phil?”

 

“Uh,” Phil, caught by the sudden question, stalled but knew the answer, sharing, “As you may know, sir, people can’t help but play favourites. I’m guilty of it, I’m not going to lie. And among my favourites, he’s probably the most.” Satisfied with his answer, he watched Fury get up from his seat and face the wide window, his back turned to Phil.

 

“I know that feeling. _You_ ’re one of my favourites. Arguably, maybe, my most favourite, but that’s classified,” Fury, despite his intimidating figure, knew how to make jokes once in a while, and Phil quite enjoyed it. “Thanks, sir,” the agent said humbly.

 

“Don’t tell Agent Hill.”

 

“My lips are sealed.”

 

“But onto more pressing matters,” Fury paced behind his desk slowly as he spoke, while Phil stayed put, standing by the door, “I like Agent Barton too. He’s in superb physical shape. He’s young and can learn a lot. The question is _will_ he learn?” Phil knew, after serving decades in his suit and tie that Fury was asking rhetorically. So he let the Director continue, “He’s a damn good kid, Phil, a damn good kid, with a lot of potential, but I’m beginning to think he’s not CIA material.”

 

The agent quirked a brow at the statement. Yes, Clint had a moment of weakness. His first real field mission proved to be too much for the recently appointed agent, but Phil remembered the sparkle in the blond’s eyes when he shared the news that he’d be out in the field. But beneath that wonderful moment, Phil remembered Clint, shouting frantically over the comm, about his wild suspicions of Natasha—the one who vouched for him—and how she was from KGB and that she was the rat in the crew. It wasn’t just heartbreaking for the Russian KGB-turned-CIA agent; it was heartbreaking for everyone. Fury was extremely upset at Clint’s lack of good judgment, and the office went on an uproar on whose side they were on. Some believed Clint was right; an ex-Russian spy should not be a part of the CIA. The other half of the office believed in second chances and redemption; they knew Natasha was an exemplar agent.

 

But the event created a divide that drew some people away, when Fury announced that Natasha was not going to be fired. She was given more field work, and Clint was moved to the file room, where the papers were stacked so high, its height beat Melinda’s walls.

 

“Why would you think that, sir?” Phil asked, realizing that it hadn’t been rhetorical that time. Fury faced him then, walking up to the agent who still stood his ground. “Here,” the Director said, handing an earpiece to him, “you make the call when you think it’s right.”

 

Phil felt some relief, letting go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The stuff he did for Clint; he thought he had to write another extensive letter to argue on the young agent’s behalf, but that wasn’t the case now. Phil took the earpiece in his hand, and smiled, nodding at Fury. “Thanks for trusting me, sir.”

 

“You’ve never let me down, Phil. Now make sure your favourite doesn’t, especially when he hears the news,” Fury said, smirking.

 

Leaving the Director’s office, Phil opened his palm and stared at the earpiece. It was red and gold—real gold—with an engraved brand name that screamed ego maniac.

 

Phil reacted internally, thoughts fighting between being happy for Clint—this meant his teenage dream’s have come true—and being torn that Clint wouldn’t react as well as Phil expected because he wasn’t that teenager anymore.

 

*

 

Natasha would beg to differ. Clint was very much like a teenager; driven by hormones and an over-eagerness to provide justice, when he was really bad at it. When he was actually a teenager, he spent a lot of his time trying to impress Tony Stark, his hero, by “saving the city.” Except no such thing was ever done, unless you count breaking municipal law, letting criminals get away by accident and costing the city thousands of dollars in damage repair.

 

She always knew that Clint had a crappy sense of priorities, but she still stuck by him, even after the incident. Unlike most people, she didn’t have favourites; she had _friends_. And she didn’t have many of them. If she counted, she’d only need two fingers. One of them was Clint, who for some reason could melt around Loki’s hands. The other friend happened to be the owner of said Clint-melting hands, Loki, who was not supposed to be a friend to Natasha. But who could blame her after being his by his side through _several_ addiction withdrawal attempts? No one, no one should blame her. Or at least she thought that should be the case.

 

Clint was having a tougher time than she did with the mission. Fury had handed Loki over to Natasha and warned her of what a wily ass the guy was, but she’d taken it anyway, used to the tough jobs. She thought it wouldn’t be that bad, until she found that the water she was given the night she met him wasn’t purely two molecules of hydrogen and one oxygen. She’d wrestled Loki to the ground and pinned him down with a knife to his throat until he promised he wasn’t up to anything bad—or well, horrible. He explained that he just wanted to know the truth out of her. And in retrospect, Loki had gone easy on her, using a weaker version of Liquid X, unlike Clint who got the short straw and was hit with a drug that’d be the demon-baby of roofie and ecstasy.

 

She supposed that was a testament to Loki’s withering trust in people, so she should be so lucky, in a weird, fucked up way. It was too bad Clint came along when Loki felt like being a jerk.

 

“Ah, shit”—speak of the devil, she heard Clint mumble as he staggered out of Loki’s bedroom and held himself against the wall. “Did you let me chug a whole bottle of rum, Nat?”

 

She shrugged at the question, saying, “It’s a free country, and a free bar fridge. Thanks to the Odinsons, remember?”

 

Clint took a moment to mull it over, eyes widening and expression more grave as events of last night returned to him. “Oh, fuck!” he cried, covering his reddening face. “Oh, shit, oh, fuck, I’m fucked.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Nat teased. “Both of you slept in, too, wonder why, but I have food ready.” But she was being ignored, with Clint pacing hurriedly around the living room and cursing at himself.

 

“Here’s some open-face cold cuts,” she said pretending to be excited as she moved the tray across the dining table, but Clint was still in own world, and she tried not to laugh at her poor, miserable friend, except she didn’t think he should feel that way.

 

She knew that speaking to Phil about pushing for Clint to leave the file room would bring Phil to speak to Fury, who wouldn’t blink at the thought of sending Clint out in the field again. This time, it’d be different. It wasn’t a whole crew; it was just two old friends who were going to travel, and brought along a third wheel with them. But now she was starting to feel like the third wheel, and yet she didn’t mind. She just wished Clint could see what was right in front of him, but once more, she had to spell it out.

 

“Stop, shut up and sit down,” she ordered, grabbing him by the shoulders and making him sit beside him on the table. Clint reluctantly followed, staring at her with wide, startled eyes. “Fuck, Nat, I raped the guy. H-he wasn’t conscious!”

 

She shook her head, and placed a familiar pill bottle on the table. “Methadone,” she read out loud, stripping a sticker with the label GHB off of it. “GHB’s liquid, not solid.”

 

“Huh, oh,” Clint stared at the bottle in confusion, letting the information sink in. “But he—he said that—he was—“

 

“Well, he said the truth, but it wasn’t GHB. It’s a less potent drink that he takes sometimes when he gets overwhelmed,” she explained, taking out a Gatorade-looking bottle and placing it beside the pills. “I’m sure you’ve never seen it. He doesn’t use it often, only when he’s really—“

 

“Strung out,” Clint finished, remembering his words from last night. His hands reached for the bottle of liquid and inspected it; it looked just like water. “Yeah,” Nat confirmed, “would you happen to know why he was feeling that way?”

 

The blond turned to her frustratedly, going with the subtle nudge she was leading him with. “Fuck, Nat, is it because of me?” Nat chuckled a bit quietly, shaking her head.

 

“No, but you might have something to do with it. He seems to think you can relieve some of his pressure.” At that, Clint tensed up a bit more and felt bad for turning the tables around on a drugged-up Loki by taking advantage of him, for real this time. “It’s fine if you feel guilty, he wants you to feel that way, but look at me”—she cupped his cheek and made him face her—“he thinks he can solve problems by snorting shit or fucking things with legs, so don’t take it personally.”

 

But that was a bit of a problem for the agent; he _was_ taking it very personally. He felt his heart flutter at the thought of last night’s heated moment: warm hands, a smooth tongue and soft lips.

 

“It’s because Thor’s coming to pick him up later tonight, and he thinks he needs to escape for a bit before reality hits him.”

 

“Nat,” Clint pleaded, “how are you so calm right now? I-I took advantage of him, and he never did anything to me, but I—“

 

She held out a hand to stop him, and she explained some more, “He may have not used you as a fleshlight, but I promise you he got into your head. He tried the same thing on me, but when there’s a will, there’s a way.” At Clint’s surprised expression, she clarified, “Oh, no, once I realized he tried to drug me, I pinned him and knocked him out ‘cause I didn’t wanna stain my knife.”

 

Good ol’ Natasha. But she took out the part where he was never knocked out but that she played along with his little game on the condition that the conversation would happen over the phone and she’d be locked in a room away from him, weary of what the liquid drug would make her do. But the little lie made Clint smile a little less uneasily.

 

She clasped her hand on his shoulder and said reassuringly, “You did fine, and if you don’t wanna remind him of last night, then don’t.”

 

“Will he… will he remember?”

 

“When I woke up after taking this”—she shook the water bottle in her hands—“everything was, I don’t know, foggy.”

 

“Foggy,” he repeated absentmindedly. She got up and grabbed the Methadone, saying, “Loki’s probably not going to get up with these in my hands, so I’ll go check on him, and eat, okay?” She got a slow nod in return, frowning at the distracted look across Clint’s face.

 

*

 

It was like last night didn’t happen.

 

After a quick and awkward midday feast of mostly sandwiches and tea, Natasha received a call from Fury to confirm a rerouting to a side mission. Unnerved at the idea of being alone with Loki in the hotel, Clint decided on both of their behalf to go with Natasha to Gotska Sandon, an island a car ride, a ferry ride and another car ride away. The trip was spent with Nat talking to Loki in heated whispers, which Clint ignored in favour of looking at the picture of the Brotherhood’s Book of Immortality on Nat’s tablet. Something about it made him so damn curious. That or he needed a big distraction, and trying to solve the case of the missing stupid book would take his mind away from his erratic heartbeats.

 

They were in the woods when Natasha parked the car by a muddy place with a lot of clearing. Loki and Clint followed her into a cabin; its door slid open when Natasha found the secret fingerprint-reader. “What are we doing here, Nat?” the other agent asked, taking in the new environment.

 

“That’s—“

 

“Classified, right, right,” he finished, sighing in frustration but continued to follow her lead. She gestured them to seat by the fireplace, on sofas adjacent to one another. “I’ll be right back. Kitchen’s to your left, obviously. I shouldn’t take long,” she said in brief and left them there.

 

Clint could hear her footsteps go into a lower level in the cabin that was beginning to seem more like some secret lab facility. Great, more secrets.

 

The embers of the fireplace danced and made a sound as they moved, like a ruffling of paper. Ugh, paper. He was glad he didn’t have to see so much like he used to in the file room. Not that this mission was going so smoothly. Fury didn’t trust him; Nat got to choose what to reveal to him and what needs to be hidden; and Loki has been making him feel like an idiot, adding more questions into Clint’s head to which there seemed to be no clear answers.

 

“Shall we talk?” Loki broke the silence, startling Clint, who turned to him and saw that the brunet looked motionless as a statue, a statue of a beautiful Greek god. Damn it, Clint. He closed his eyes firmly and tried to get away from the distracting thoughts. “What do you wanna talk about?” he asked instinctively, trying to deny that this was actually happening. The truth would slip out, and then what would he say? Sorry for using your hand as a pump for my dick, thanks though?

 

“I believe I owe you an apology,” Loki replied, still motionless except for his mouth that spoke careful words. “For punching you, and for tricking you again, and for trying to bed you.”

 

Clint furrowed his brows and was stunned at the detailed apology. Nat must’ve really gotten to him. With Clint’s lack of response, Loki kept speaking, “I’d love to blame it on my drug habits, but Agent Romanov argued that taking it out on you won’t solve the anxiety I have over the impending doom that is seeing my brother soon again.”

 

When the silence hung far too long for Clint, who was still trying to form words to express his mixed feelings—struck with the sheer honesty coming from an actual talking Loki, but also having so many things to say like the damned apology that wouldn’t leave his lips—he managed to say something out of the blue, “Fuck, Nat really got to you.”

 

Then he turned, surprised at his own anger as he gripped onto the sofa’s armrests to sustain his rage, and harshly whispered at Loki, “You’re saying shit she spoon-fed to you, and you think I’m gonna be okay with it?”

 

“Agent Barton,” Loki called onto him amidst the red Clint was seeing. “I mean what I say and don’t mean to slight you further.”

 

“How dare you fucking speak all calm at me, when I feel like this—like I’m on _fire_ , and I’ve been working up to say sorry to you but somehow you beat me to it and don’t even mean a single fucking word!”

 

“I think you should be speaking a bit more quietly, Agent Barton.”

 

“Shut up!” Clint was yelling now, stomping to Loki’s seat, then grabbing him by the collar and raising him up. “I owe people a shit-ton of apologies. The list could wrap around the world twice, but you—you’re a fucking prick.”

 

“I’m aware that we don’t get along, Agent—“

 

“No! No, you don’t get to talk. You’re not talking your way out or into whatever the fuck you’re trying to do.” He tightened his grip and brought Loki closer to him, almost against his own chest. Yet the brunet looked unfazed, stubbornly so.

 

“I assure you that this is not a good way to apologize to me properly,” Loki said, laced with scorn.

 

“I really don’t think you deserve one anymore,” Clint said, eyes fiery at the man in his hands.

 

“Is this about the punch? Would you like to call it even?” Loki suggested, eyes looking to the side as if Clint wasn’t even worth his time. How could he, Clint thought, aggravated by Loki’s confusing actions. The agent let go of his grasp on the brunet’s collar and stepped away so a few feet were between them.

 

Loki didn’t move but held the agent’s livid eyes with a steady gaze. “Go ahead, I won’t stop you.”

 

Clint clenched his jaw, looking around in deep thought and, finding something there, shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”

 

“Then what?”

 

The agent rushed at Loki, and expecting to fall, the latter was taken aback by the feel of a strong hand on the back of his head pulling him into a rough smacking of his lips against the blond’s soft, smooth pair. Perfect against his own. Clint’s other arm was wrapped tightly around his torso, and squeezing tighter, he moaned then let go, walking away quickly from a speechless Loki, and going into the kitchen.

 

*

 

“They’re making quite a rumble up there.”

 

Natasha smiled, placating, and said, “Don’t worry about them. They’re just jumpy from the jet lag.”

 

“I’m sure,” the other one spoke. He was sporting a white lab coat over a green checkered shirt and khakis. His hands were in his coat pockets; his glasses were slipping off of the bridge of his nose. “You know, Agent Romanov, I knew you were coming, but I hoped you wouldn’t.”

 

She replied with a stretched smile of her full, pink lips. “I’m not always the bearer of bad news, Bruce,” she said, walking closer to him but he took a step back away from her.

 

“You could’ve just sent me a letter from Fury. But now that you’re here, you can tell him I said no right to your face.”

 

Natasha blocked his way when he started walking towards the door. He sighed heavily as he faced her, wrath rumbling in his throat, which was fair enough since she was invading his space, but she spoke calmly to him, “This isn’t from Fury, Bruce. Well, not directly. I’m passing on a message from Tony.” Bruce’s expression turned to one of unexpected curiosity, so she elaborated, “He’d like to hire you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments, you guys <3 I really appreciate them! And if you’re a silent reader, like me, thank you all the same. I hope everyone’s excited about the upcoming Avengers: Age of Ultron!


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